


All The Devils Are Here

by the_diggler



Series: Halloween in Bondage [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Beads, Angst, Bondage, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Dominatrix, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Flogging, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Piercings, Polski | Polish, Possesive Dean, Public Sex, Riding Crops, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Smut, Switching, Tongue Piercings, Translation Available, Triggers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hasn't always been the masterful dom he is now, and the more time he spends with Castiel, the more he feels his control slipping. But when Dean runs back to his old haunting ground, 'The Pit,' Castiel follows, and gives Dean exactly what he needs.</p><p><b>ETA OCT 2017:</b> So... life happened and I didn't finish revising this as soon as I'd intended. I still plan to make those changes though, so this may be the last Halloween this fic will exist as is. Enjoy it while it lasts :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [WSZYSTKIE DIABŁY SĄ TUTAJ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117127) by [patusinka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patusinka/pseuds/patusinka)



> [Reference images for the tattoos, toys, positions etc mentioned in this fic are [tagged at my tumblr](http://the-diggler.tumblr.com/tagged/All-The-Devils-Are-Here). Some images may be NSFW.]
> 
> A/N: Last Halloween I wrote a fic called [What's In A Name?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/624915) in which Dean goes to a Masquerade event, meets an ‘angel’, and dancefloor shenanigans ensue. And then it turns into bdsm :S There was a lot of stuff I left out of that fic though, because I thought it was too dark for something that started out pretty cracky. So it all went in this one.
> 
>  **WARNING: This fic contains bdsm.** That means bondage, spanking, whipping, flogging, toys, etc. There is also an Alastair/Dean flashback in Chapter 2 which may contain triggers for some readers - although the _sexual_ consent issues are labeled as dubious, there is some related violence that occurs, but is not explicitly depicted ([details here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/714989/chapters/1323466#chapter_2_endnotes)). But you can always skip over that part, as it's all pretty optional to the plot (what little there is). Lastly, as a work of erotic _fiction_ , this is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of the lifestyles, practices, or trauma recovery depicted herein, but is instead inspired by established tropes from the genre. And I don't mean 50 Shades. Because I haven't read it :s

~

_Romeo: Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,_  
_Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn._  
_Mercutio: If love be rough with you, be rough with love;_  
_Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down._  
_\-- Romeo & Juliet, Act I scene v_

~

 

To control is to have power. Dean knows this. It’s why he’s played the game of Master and Slave, Dominant and Submissive, Masochist and Sadist, over and over, since the day he learnt that lesson, the hard way.  
  
But to _own_ is not as easy. Ownership comes with strings. Responsibility. A care and devotion to that which is owned, all on its own. The ultimate consequence of holding complete trust, obedience, and adoration in your very hands.  
  
And Dean _didn't_ know that until now. Because until now, he’s never played Master to any one person for so long. Has never dared or even _wanted_ to play that role for longer than a night, until now. And now it is no longer a game. It is… _everything_.  
  
He is already consumed by it, as soon as Castiel steps through his door. Dean can tell that the other man is upset, run down and tired, and that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He just wants to forget for a while. And Dean can do that for him. Hell, Dean could make Castiel forget his own name if he wanted to.  
  
And he kind of wants to. Kind of wants Cas to forget about everyone and everything until all he knows is Dean. Only Dean.  
  
Maybe he will. If that’s what Cas needs.  
  
As he begins to peel away the layers of Castiel’s clothes he can already sense the weariness leaching out of the other man’s bones, and he can barely contain himself, his fingers _burning_ with the need to touch Castiel’s skin - to mark him, and claim him, to tease and stroke and scratch him until Castiel is nothing but a mindless, whimpering, _beautiful_ mess.  
  
But this transformation takes patience. This process of unmaking Castiel the man, and remaking his angel, his perfect pet, takes time, and work. But it’s a process they’re familiar with now. Almost routine, they’ve done it so many times. So by the time the last layer of Castiel’s clothes come off, they’re both already dripping hard.  
  
“Gimme a kiss Hello,” Dean says, pitching his voice lower. It’s not a request, and he can tell Castiel understands this from the way his blue eyes flare in arousal, before he immediately complies. But what Castiel doesn’t know, is that the command is as much for Dean as it is to signal the beginning of the game, needing the small intimacy before he has to take control again.  
  
Dean hums into the kiss, savouring the closeness, reaching up to stroke Castiel’s face and holding him there for a little bit longer then he should – but he can’t help himself. And when he finally tries to pull away Cas doesn’t let him go either, closing his teeth around Dean’s tongue behind the stud piercing there, and trapping it in his mouth. With a groan Dean dives back into this kiss, deep and dirty, sucking and biting on Cas’ lush lips with an almost savage fervour until he tastes Castiel’s blood in his mouth.  
  
Dean rips his lips away with a snarl when he finally has to break away for air, grabbing onto Castiel’s arm and yanking the other man towards the living room. “On your knees,” he orders, and Cas immediately sinks to the ground, knees spread apart and hands behind his head, displaying himself for Dean.  
  
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Dean begins circling Castiel’s kneeling form, considering a plan of action, and Castiel knows to keep his eyes lowered as Dean does so. _‘Good’_ Dean wants to murmur in approval. _‘Beautiful’_ Dean wants to tell him. But it’s not time for these things yet.  
  
Instead, Dean opens a drawer under the coffee table, pulling a coil of hemp rope from its depths. As the familiar smell of it hits the air, Dean can see the tremor of excitement that runs through Castiel’s body in response, the shiver that ripples across the tattooed wings on his back. And as Dean kneels down beside him, he can’t help but smooth a hand down Cas’ spine, as if soothing a skittish bird. But Castiel keens and arches against the touch, almost like he wants to lift off, and that just makes Dean want to tie him down even more, to see the way those ropes look around those pretty, pretty wings.  
  
Dean reaches up to draw Castiel’s arms down behind his back. “Keep them there,” he orders, even though he knows Castiel wouldn’t have moved them anyway. But it’s part of the process, establishing obedience to commands. And with every knot and coil around Cas’ body the ritual is cast, so when Dean is finished, Castiel is completely ready to serve.  
  
By the time Dean sits back on the couch Cas is panting with anticipation, and Dean smirks a little at that as he slouches down, widening the part of his legs. “Come over here,” he beckons, and Castiel immediately begins to knee his way over, situating himself at the foot of the couch between Dean’s legs. “Now undress me. Quick,” he adds, even though he knows it will be slow while Castiel only has the use of his mouth. But it’s all part of the game, creating a sense of urgency, even though he’s going to enjoy the slow tease.  
  
Castiel has gotten good at it though. He knows now to start at the top and work his way down, beginning with the button at Dean’s collar, using his teeth and tongue to pry the plastic from the material. He also knows just how to push Dean’s other buttons as well, using his nose to nuzzle at Dean’s chest, and his breath to brush over the parts of skin he ‘accidentally’ licks. Dean hums in approval, threading his fingers through Castiel’s hair and slowly stroking through it as Cas works. And once Dean’s shirt is undone, Castiel doesn’t stop there, working the button of Dean’s jeans loose, then taking the zipper in his teeth and pulling it down.  
  
Dean’s erection practically bobs free then, tenting the material of his briefs, and Castiel presses his cheek to it, rubbing against it in supplication. “Please,” Castiel moans, begging for it the only way he is allowed.  
  
Dean raises his hips, pushing his jeans down his legs, and Castiel uses his teeth to help tug on the waist of the Dean’s briefs as Dean slides those down as well. Then Dean’s cock is finally free, and with one word, Castiel is allowed to put his lips all over it:  
  
“Suck.”  
  
What a mouth Castiel has. And there are things he does with his tongue that Dean hadn’t even known were possible. And maybe Dean says these things, babbling incoherent encouragement as he tries not to thrust too hard into that amazing, _wet_ suction. He doesn’t really care at this point. Doesn’t really have to. Castiel’s learned to take care of him so good he can afford to let go a little bit. And he can trust that by now, Castiel’s also learned how to tell just when he’s about to come, and will pull away, waiting to be told what to do with it.  
  
Today Dean wants to see it.  
  
“Open,” he gasps out, and Castiel opens his mouth wide, waiting for Dean to jack himself into it as he rubs his tip against the end of Cas’ outstretched tongue.  
  
He comes pretty hard. And there’s a lot of it, dribbling across Castiel’s cheek where Dean misses, and spilling down Cas’ chin where it overflows. Dean wipes at it with his thumb as he catches his breath, smearing it across Castiel’s swollen lips and watching him lick it off, until finally Dean pushes his thumb inside to be sucked clean as well. He does it again, and again, until every drop is gone from Castiel’s face, and afterwards Cas smiles up at him from where he’s resting his head on Dean’s thigh, adoring and content. Not for the first time Dean wonders how the hell he got so lucky.  
  
But Dean knows that by now Cas must be in a great deal of discomfort, still hard and almost desperate for relief, though he knows better than to seek friction where he can. So this time Dean _does_ praise him, because he’s worked for it, and earned it.  
  
“Good,” he murmurs, stroking through Castiel’s hair again. “Perfect,” he reaffirms, and Castiel smiles even brighter, glowing from the praise.  
  
Dean smiles back at him as he reaches into the coffee table drawer again, pulling out his next toy. Cas’ pupils flare when he sees it, and he practically pants in excitement as Dean displays it for him. “Bend over, angel-face,” Dean murmurs softly, and Castiel immediately knees backwards, giving himself enough space to turn to the side, locking his eyes on Dean as he slowly leans over, all the way down, until the side of his face meets the floor. It should be a difficult manoeuvre, arms bound behind his back the way they are, but the kind of control Castiel has over his body turns the whole thing into some kind of slow, erotic display.  
  
Dean hums appreciatively as he slides off the couch, sinking to his knees behind the other man. He flicks the vibrator on for a second, testing the batteries, and Castiel moans at the sound of it, thrusting his hips out in silent entreaty.  
  
Dean smacks his palm down against Castiel’s ass. “Be still,” he orders, and Castiel lets out a pitiful mewl, but quickly stills his hips.  
  
“Dean...” he whimpers.  
  
Dean leans over, pressing a kiss to the already reddening handmark on Castiel’s backside before shushing him softly, lips against the swelling skin. “Hush,” he croons, “I’m gonna give you what you need, Cas, you know I will.”  
  
“ _Dean…_ ” Castiel moans again, one of the few words he’s allowed to speak, and yet somehow managing to convey a million things in the way he says it. Somehow managing to do a million things to Dean when he does.  
  
Dean presses another soft kiss to the curve of Castiel’s rear, before pulling away to slick his fingers up with lube, reaching down to start stretching Castiel out. And now when Castiel moans his name, its meaning is singular, stripped of everything but the need for _more_.  
  
But the man remains obediently still. And the only sign of how difficult that is, is the clench of his hands, and the slight stretch of rope where his arms strain at his bindings, only allowing himself tension where he knows there is resistance.  
  
Finally Dean slides the slick plastic in, carefully pushing back and forth until it’s seated as far as it can go. Castiel’s breathing is harsh as he tries not to squirm around it, tries not to adjust himself so it presses just where he needs it. But when Dean turns it on, the stimulation is enough to draw a sharp cry from Castiel’s lips.  
  
“Yeah, that’s it. Let me hear you,” Dean encourages. Slowly thrusting the plastic in and out, he changes the center of its vibrations with the movement, switching the strength of stimulation from the rim of Castiel’s entrance, to the depths of his inner walls, drawing out more of those throaty gasps and groans he loves to hear. The wrecked sound of Castiel’s voice, when he can’t even form the few words he’s allowed anymore, drives Dean crazy, and it isn’t long before Dean’s hard again.  
  
“Cas,” Dean grits out, turning the vibrator off to command Castiel’s attention, and before the dismayed whimper that issues from Cas’ throat even ends Dean spanks him on the ass, compelling him to be still, and silent. It takes a few seconds for Castiel to quiet himself, and Dean waits patiently until his moans are nothing more than harsh breaths, gasped into the carpet.  
  
“Do you want to come?”  
  
“Yes! _Please_...”  
  
“Then I can either turn this on again,” he says, wiggling the vibrator until Cas sobs from the stimulation, “Or you can come with me inside you,” he finishes, smearing the wet tip of his erection across the back of Castiel’s thigh.  
  
Castiel shivers, groaning with need at the touch. “Oh God, Dean, Yes! Please!”  
  
“What was that?” Dean teases. “You want the vibrator?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“You want my cock.”  
  
“ _Yes!_ ”  
  
And Dean _knew_ that’s what Castiel would say. He shouldn’t even have given Cas the choice to begin with. Cas would’ve gotten what he needed either way. Dean just wanted to hear Castiel choose _him_.  
  
He yanks the vibrator out, and before Cas even readjusts, Dean is slicked up, pushing the head of his cock past the rim of Castiel’s hole.  
  
Castiel chokes off in surprise, holding his breath as he freezes, waiting to see what Dean will do. Dean grins, holding himself there for a long moment, dragging it out until he’s sure Castiel is about to scream in frustration, and then Dean _slams_ home, angling himself with a precision that finally _does_ make Castiel scream.  
  
And what screams they are. Desperate, needy, _agonized_ things, wrenched from Castiel’s throat as Dean both gives and takes exactly what they both need.  
  
His pace is relentless, hips smacking against the skin of Castiel’s rear as sharply as if he’d been using his hands, creating perfect ripples across that smooth, soft flesh. And when Castiel’s skin becomes too sweat-slick to hold on to, Dean grabs onto the bindings around Cas’ torso, using them as reins to pull himself all that deeper, harder.  
  
It doesn’t take long before he knows Cas is ready to go off, having waited that much longer, stimulated and teased to his limits. “Come on, Cas. Let it go,” Dean grits out, still thrusting, and Castiel’s cries choke off with a sob, his entire body locking up as he spurts out his release, from the force of Dean’s cock alone.  
  
Cas’ entire body deflates afterwards, but Dean still doesn’t ease up, fucking into his limp form from behind with Cas’ face still pressed into the carpet. And Cas just takes it and takes it, mewling Dean’s name until Dean is blowing his load again, marking Cas up inside with a strangled sob of his own.  
  
His entire body shakes after that, the need to collapse into a heap beside Castiel overwhelming. But Cas is also shaking, trembling with the effort to remain upright, and Dean needs to take care of him first. He takes a few deep breaths to gather his strength, presses a kiss to Castiel’s skin where he’s dropped over the other man’s back, then lifts himself up, pulling himself out as carefully as he can.  
  
Castiel still can’t help but shudder at the withdrawal though, can’t help but hiss a little as he begins to leak come, all the way down his leg. And Dean can’t help but reach down, sliding his fingers up through it until he can push it all back inside. Another quick rummage through the drawer, and Dean is plugging Cas up, keeping it all in there, and keeping him stretched until they’re ready to go again. Then finally Dean releases Cas’ bindings, and lifts him off the floor, massaging the blood back into Cas’ arms from behind while pressing soft kisses across his shoulders and into his neck.  
  
Castiel is completely pliant in his arms, leaning back against his chest and humming in pleasure at his kisses, neck arching in synchronous movements against his lips. When they’ve both caught their breath and stopped shaking, Dean helps the other man stand up, but doesn’t remove his arms or his lips, directing Castiel’s steps to the bedroom from behind without the need to see or speak. And it’s not until they reach Dean’s bed, that they let themselves collapse, tangled together on the sheets.  
  
~  
  
Castiel’s eyelids droop dangerously low as they trade lazy kisses, his face relaxing into a soft, sated smile, so Dean can tell Cas is about to drift off - but that’s not what Dean wants just yet. So even though their kisses are slow and languid, Dean makes sure to press his lips to all the places Cas likes, keeping Castiel just on the edge of awareness, but not stimulating him too much. Cas deserves a bit of a rest after all.  
  
And besides, Dean has grown to love these long, unhurried recovery sessions – their frames molded against each other, Cas practically melting in his arms, all pliant and trusting, his expression open and content as he gazes at Dean with those big blue eyes of his... No, Dean definitely doesn’t want Castiel to fall asleep just yet. Not by a longshot.  
  
And if Dean wasn’t enjoying it so much, he wouldn’t be so patient about it either. But because he is, Dean lets Cas decide when he’s ready again, waiting until the man has recovered enough that his body begins to respond to Dean’s touch again, coming alive under Dean’s light, but persistent ministrations.  
  
When Cas begins to moan through his kisses, trying to rock himself against Dean in need of friction – but at the same time having the presence of mind to try and hold back in case he isn’t allowed – Dean knows it’s time for the next round. Grinning against Castiel’s lips, he uses his weight to roll the other man onto his back, pinning Castiel beneath him as he lifts himself up to a straddling position. Then wordlessly he takes Castiel’s wrists and raises them, fastening them in the cuffs that permanently hang from the top bar of his bedhead.  
  
Cas watches his every movement like a hawk, his blue eyes turning almost black with desire as his breath begins to quicken with anticipation again. Dean can barely look away, so it’s mostly by feel and experience that he manages to open his bedside drawer and pull out the things he wants. Then Dean is reclaiming Castiel’s lips, kissing him deep and long, before nudging Cas’ face to the side with his nose, nuzzling into the skin of the other man’s neck again.  
  
Kissing and licking his way downwards, Dean finally finds the pebbled peak of a nipple, and closes his mouth around it with a hard suck, curling his tongue around it to tease it with his stud while he uses his teeth to nibble it. When it’s wet and red and hard, he pulls off to pinch it with his fingers, twisting and squeezing it until Castiel’s gasps are equal parts pleasure and pain – and then Dean clips the nipple clamp down.  
  
Castiel’s gasps are mostly pain then, until Dean’s mouth finds its way to Cas’ other nipple, sucking and licking and teasing it as well. And usually when Dean bites down on it, tugging at Cas’ nipple ring with his tongue-stud at the same time, the treatment is borderline painful, but with the other nipple already clamped it becomes a pleasure that distracts from the other pain.  
  
But Castiel’s tolerance has increased during their time together. So now, instead of fastening the clamp to Cas’ ring, if Dean can position the piercing the right way he can clamp the nipple itself. And even though it’s much more painful that way, Cas has learned exactly how he can and cannot move to manage the sensation.  
  
Castiel has come a long way during their time together. And Dean has learned much about what the man can take. So even though there’s one last attachment on the chain – the silver cock ring – Dean doesn’t use it. He knows by now Cas doesn’t have any trouble staying hard. And if he did have any trouble, Dean would know how to remedy it straight away. So instead he ties the ring to the headbar as a kind of leash, providing tension to the pull of the nipple clamps on the opposite ends.  
  
Once it’s done Dean sits back on his haunches, admiring his handiwork. With a satisfied grin he watches Castiel squirm on the sheets, the cuffs at Cas’ wrists rattling and the thin chains attached to his body shimmering as they stretch against his movements. Dean has his dick in his hand before he even knows it, thrusting into the hot friction of his fist as Castiel watches and whines in frustration.  
  
“Spread,” Dean commands, reaching for the lube with his free hand. Cas immediately spreads his legs wider, lifting his hips a little to present his entrance, clenched around the plug there. Dean pulls it out, carefully, before he quickly lubes up his fingers, pushing them right into that gaping, hungry hole. And Cas takes them so, _so_ deep, allowing the entry with almost _no_ resistance, even though the rest of his body is taught and tied up with tension. _Goddamn_ but Cas could take so much now.  
  
Dean decides not to wrap Cas’ balls up with the leather cuff. He knows Cas has developed a great deal of control over himself, but right now he kind of wants Cas to lose it - to come all over himself no matter how hard he tries not to, because he just can’t fucking help himself. And maybe then Dean will spend some time punishing him for it, reminding him that he’s only allowed to come when Dean says so. That only _Dean_ has control over him.  
  
Dean doesn’t play fair though. He picks out the toy he knows affects Castiel the most, right where Cas is the most sensitive – a long black string of anal beads, small on one end, becoming progressively larger down the other end.  
  
He starts with the thin end, pushing in the smallest bead easily, and Cas’ eyes fly wide when he feels it, instantly knowing what it is. And even though the bead is smaller than the girth of one of Dean’s fingers, Cas clenches around it anyway, as Dean’s taught him to, so Dean can pull on the string and tease Cas’ hole with the tension.  
  
He does that with the next few beads as well, tugging on the string lightly after he’s pushed one in, teasing and testing Cas, painstakingly slow. And then once Cas has a few beads inside him Dean starts to tease him by pulling them all out again, then pushing them back in, over and over until Cas is gasping and shaking on the sheets.  
  
Finally Dean gets to a bead large enough to provide a challenge, and Cas groans hard and loud as Dean _oh_ -so-slowly pushes it in. But this time Dean stops with the teasing, pushing in the next larger bead straight away, and the next, until Cas is all filled up, stretched and writhing around them.  
  
Cas is ready to blow, leaking all over his stomach and down his cock, his balls dark and tight between his trembling thighs. And then blow he does, almost as soon as Dean begins to pull the string back out, spurting and screaming as Dean yanks out the end of the smaller beads with vicious speed.  
  
Cas is a mindless mess after that - chest heaving with ragged breaths, flushed and come-covered and gorgeous - and Dean feels something tighten in his chest as he smears his fingers through the spray on Castiel’s stomach, waiting for Cas to come down. It always amazes him how Cas can do that, come from that kind of stimulation alone, without even having his cock touched. But for some reason, this time he feels inexplicably unsettled by it, almost like he’s been cheated somehow, jealous that Cas came from a _toy_. And it makes no sense, but he’s… _angry_.  
  
“Did I say you could come?” Dean scowls, and Cas’ eyes immediately snap to his face, apologetic. “Speak!” Dean barks.  
  
“No, you didn’t. I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel replies hurriedly. And this is the part where Dean is supposed to punish Cas some way, deprive him of the time to relish his relaxed post-orgasm state and turn his body into a livewire again, this time with pain instead of pleasure.  
  
But he just can’t do it. He’s angry, and he _needs_.  
  
Before he knows it, he’s lubing himself up with Castiel’s come, and pushing himself into Cas’ slick, stretched-out, hole. Cas is so wet inside, and takes him so easily, that Dean starts thrusting almost straight away, hard and deep and aiming right for where Cas should be feeling delicate. And Cas just gives him this look, full of surprised disbelief that Dean wants to do this to him again, so soon. But he doesn’t use his safeword, so Dean doesn’t stop or ease up. In fact, Dean’s never heard Cas say the word _‘Leviathan_ ’ other than the time they’d established their words. And Dean’s never been more grateful for it than he is now. Even though Cas is now watching him a little warily, sensing something is off.  
  
Dean begins to thrust deeper, pushing Cas’ legs back even further, wider. “You make me crazy,” he grits out, as if he owes Cas some kind of explanation, punctuating his words with hard thrusts. Castiel cries out, his eyes clenching shut at the overstimulation of his sensitized body, but this inflames Dean even further. “Look at me!” he snarls, grabbing Castiel by the chin. Slowly Cas opens his eyes again, and even though Dean’s thrusts are unrelenting, there's still concern in Cas’ eyes. Worry.  
  
Dean grips Castiel’s hips, raising them up even higher off the bed, curling Cas’ body so far around himself he can see where Dean is thrusting into him. Cas is so open like this, so stretched from the beads before, that Dean can pull out all the way and slip right back in with every thrust. “You see that?” Dean growls. “Your ass belongs to _me!_ ”  
  
Castiel watches where Dean slides in and out of him, groaning with Dean’s every, _long_ , thrust. But it’s just not enough for Dean. “Say it,” he hisses. Barely a whisper. Almost like he’s afraid to give the order.  
  
“Yours,” Cas gasps amidst groans, “My ass is yours.”  
  
For some reason it doesn’t give Dean the satisfaction he thought it would though. But for the life of him he can’t think of what will. So he just starts thrusting faster, fucking out Cas’ slick hole until the pleasure-pressure is so good, all he can think about is finding release.  
  
But then he hears Cas, still whispering, “ _Yours_ ,” over and over again. And Dean just looses it, throwing his head back with a primal scream as he comes, _hard_ , shooting what seems like endless streams deep inside Castiel’s body.  
  
His vision is swimming when it’s over, and he’s sure his knees are about to give out, the way his body just won’t stop shaking. It takes all the strength he has left to free Castiel from his restraints, movements aided by the familiarity of experience again, before he collapses into Cas’ waiting arms.  
  
~  
  
When Dean comes to, he’s still wrapped up in Castiel’s arms, face buried in Cas’ neck with long fingers stroking slowly through his hair.  
  
He doesn’t want to move. Ever.  
  
And there’s something in that sentiment that makes it the first thing Dean does, pulling himself out of Castiel’s embrace and rolling over onto his back.  
  
Cas comes with him though, rolling on top of him and looking down at him with a soft smile. And it just wrecks Dean a little, that Cas can still look at him that way, after losing control like he had. He doesn’t know why Cas hasn’t just up and left already.  
  
“You’re amazing, you know that? What’d I ever do to deserve you,” he whispers, searching Castiel’s face for some kind of answer. Castiel doesn’t say anything, simply leaning down to give him a soft, slow kiss.  
  
Dean sighs when they pull apart, taking Castiel’s hand off his chest and bringing it to his lips, kissing Cas’ fingers in return. He feels the pads of Castiel’s fingertips pressing back, tracing the shape of his mouth, but he continues kissing the slender digits, soft and reverent as he stares into Cas’ eyes. He doesn’t know how much time they loose that way, but eventually Cas’ fingers return to his chest, caressing the star inked over his heart.  
  
Cas has never asked Dean about his tattoo, even though Dean knows Cas is curious about it. And in a way Dean’s grateful, because he’s not sure if he’s ready to explain it to the other man. He thinks that maybe he wants to. Maybe it’s time to share that part of himself he’s been keeping close to his chest for so long. But something keeps holding him back, and he doesn’t know what it is.  
  
Castiel is… perfect. He’s everything Dean never actually thought he’d find. The other man had given himself over to Dean so thoroughly, letting Dean push limits and boundaries further than anyone else he’d ever been with, and responding to Dean’s control with such trust and abandon that at times Dean thinks the man really is some kind of heaven-sent angel, just for him.  
  
And yet, for all his submissiveness, Cas constantly pushes at Dean’s limits as well, taking Dean over the edge with him as Dean claims him over and over again, so many different ways. Lately it seems that no matter how tight he ties Castiel up, no matter what kind of cruel and sensual punishment he can devise to torture the man to completion, Dean feels like it’s _himself_ fighting against restraint, the edges of his control fraying and unravelling as the other man takes everything Dean has to offer, and more.  
  
And that’s the problem. The more Castiel can take, the more Dean is forced to give.  
  
And now there’s nothing left but the darkest, deepest, buried parts of his soul.  
  
Castiel sighs, his blue eyes pained, but eternally patient. Dean knows the other man can tell his thoughts have gone somewhere he can’t follow, and as if sensing the trigger, Cas removes his fingers from Dean’s tattoo, reaching up to caress Dean’s face instead.  
  
Dean closes his eyes, letting the pads of Castiel’s fingers brush against his features, tracing his jaw, down the bridge of his nose, across his lips, curling up his eyelashes… and Dean finds himself breathing easier, deeper, comforted by the familiar touch.  
  
He already needs this _so much_. He wonders how he _ever_ lived without it. Or if he could ever go back to living without it now.  
  
And sometimes that scares the hell out of him, because he wonders what will happen when Cas finds out how weak he really is.

  
~ _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter contains an Alastair/Dean flashback. But it's optional to the plot (what little there is), so there will be a jump-cut at that part to skip over it if you want to. But if you choose to read it, please take note that it contains dub-con, bottom!Dean, Dean!whump, public!sex etc... which may contain TRIGGERS for survivors of sexual abuse. Although the _sexual_ consent issues are labeled as dubious, there is some violence that occurs, but is not explicitly depicted. ([details here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/714989/chapters/1323466#chapter_2_endnotes)). Lastly, as a work of erotic fiction, this is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of the lifestyles, practices, or trauma recovery depicted herein, but is instead inspired by established tropes from the genre. And I don't mean 50 Shades. Because I haven't read it :s

_~_

_What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?_  
_This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell._  
_\-- Juliet, Act III scene ii_

~

  
“Holy crap! Omigod I’m _so_ sorry!”  
  
“Wha--? _Sam!_ What the fuck?!” Dean yells, sitting up in surprise and seeing the tail end of his brother as Sam turns and runs back out the door. Castiel grunts unhappily as the sudden movement jostles him from his sleep, blinking his eyes blearily in confusion.  
  
“I’m _so_ sorry, guys! But no one was answering the front door and I was getting really worried so I just used my emergency key and-- God I’m so sorry!” Sam rambles through the door.  
  
Dean sighs, sitting up on the edge of the bed and scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s ok Sammy, just give us a minute ok?”  
  
“Yeah, sure thing guys… Sorry!” Sam blurts out again before his footsteps lead away from the bedroom.  
  
Castiel groans as he stretches himself awake, and Dean gets off the bed, sluggishly pulling on some clothes.  
  
“Is it time for dinner already?” Cas huffs, half-laughing, half-whining.  
  
“Sorry gorgeous, as much as I’d love to spend the whole weekend lying around and fucking, _you_ were the one who agreed to cook for the whiny neglected Sasquatch.” he replies, sitting back down on the bed and giving Cas’ knee a little shake to get him going.  
  
Castiel sighs, “And here I had such elaborate plans to entice you with over dinner.” he laments. Dean perks up at that, twisting around and leaning over Cas with a grin.  
  
“Oh yeah? Like what?”  
  
“Well, for starters, I was thinking of having you lick Carbonara sauce off my body while I used a string of linguini to make myself a skirt of bacon to wear.”  
  
Dean snorts. The image is completely ridiculous, but he finds his mouthbuds watering anyway. And not entirely from the idea of the food alone.  
  
Dean drops his head on Cas’ chest with a whimper. “Goddamn cockblocking little brothers.” he grumbles.  
  
“Hey. Don’t say that.” Castiel chides softly. “You’re lucky you have him.” he murmurs, and when Dean looks up he deflates a little at the expression on Cas’ face. Dean knows Castiel is thinking of his own less-than-ideal family situation, and he instantly regrets having inadvertently reminding him. Especially since he’d just spent the whole afternoon trying to get Cas to forget.  
  
Often when Castiel came to him exhausted or agitated it had something to do with those bigoted dicks. Them or his douchebag of a boss Zacariah, who was also part of the family, as it happened. Dean managed to get the whole story out of Cas eventually, when he’d started asking why Castiel was so upset all the time, and to say Cas’ family was less-than-ideal is maybe a bit of an understatement. A bunch of over-zealous, meddling, do-gooders would be more accurate.  
  
Castiel’s parents were so religious they gave all their children names of angels. First Michael, then Gabriel, the adopted Raphael, even Lucifer. Then there was a daughter, Anael, and after that they didn’t think they would be able to have any more children so they adopted another boy, Uriel. But then shortly after that, they had Castiel. The seventh. A surprise.  
  
The family had been kind of strict in their hierarchy, and being the youngest of seven, Cas basically grew up being told what to do, practically every second of the day, every decision made for him. Such a strict hierarchy was not without friction though. Lucifer, the black sheep of the family, was the first to go. As if he’d been branded at birth by his namesake. Then Gabriel began to keep his distance, of his own choosing, managing to keep himself separate from any family squabbles. Anna left by her own choice as well, feeling constrained by the family’s expectations and wanting to live a freer lifestyle. But Anna and Castiel had been especially close, so when she left, it inspired Cas to find the courage to come out. Which of course resulted in his instant expulsion as well.  
  
Castiel said he never regretted his decision, but since he’d struck out on his own he was easily overwhelmed with all the choices he had to make on a daily basis. Anna was constantly travelling and couldn’t be there for Castiel as much as he needed. Gabriel was similarly absent, and was just as likely to get Castiel into trouble when he finally _did_ show his face. Which left only the black sheep brother of the family for guidance, who Castiel didn’t really want around to begin with. So he came to Dean to be told what to do again, to be free of the burden of choice and thought, and just be able react, and feel.  
  
Castiel once told him those moments with Dean gave him enough of a reprieve from the world that he had the courage to face it again. And Dean could see those changes happening, not just on nightly basis, but over time as well. When he first met Cas, the other man had a bit of boldness to him, a little bit of impatience that hinted at the rebelliousness that led to the break from his family. But he’d always thrived on taking commands, on becoming a blank slate for Dean to paint both pleasure and pain.  
  
Then as time passed, Castiel flourished in obedience, developing a sense of playfulness and learning just how to tease Dean within the constraints of the rules Dean established. And when they were done, Castiel was transformed - confident, smiling, beautiful - A different man, completely untouched by any lingering influence from his family.  
  
Until Dean made some careless comment, reminding Cas exactly why he came to Dean in the first place.  
  
“I’m sorry, Cas.” he murmurs, kissing Castiel softly in apology. And thankfully his work this afternoon has had some effect after all, because Castiel finds his smile again much more quickly than usual.  
  
“It’s alright.” he replies, nipping at Dean’s lips playfully. Dean grins, leaning down and nuzzling the other man’s neck.  
  
“Dean!” Castiel laughs admonishingly, shivering at the tickle of Dean’s breath on his skin. Dean smiles into the other man’s neck, never tiring of the way his name sounds on Castiel’s lips, no matter what tone of voice the man uses.  
  
“Come on angel-face, get up.” he orders, spanking the other man on the ass as he pulls away. Cas grumbles behind him, but gets off the bed, searching for something to wear. His own clothes are still out in the living room where Sam is, and Dean’s kind of glad they are, because it means Castiel will have to wear some of Dean’s clothes, and Dean _loves_ that. Almost as much as he loves Castiel naked.  
  
While Cas rummages through his dresser, Dean takes the opportunity to clean up the ruin that is his bed, putting the toys aside for cleaning later and straightening the sheets across the mattress.  
  
It’s then when he sees something that freezes him cold, his breath sinking into a tight pit in his stomach.  
  
The next second Dean is bending Cas over the dresser, spreading his legs apart and checking around the rim of Castiel’s plug.  
  
“Dean!” Castiel gasps, “Sam’s waiting for us.” he says, misinterpreting Dean’s actions as something playful, forceful as they are.  
  
“Dammit Cas, why didn’t you say anything!” Dean hisses. Castiel seems fine, but there’s no mistaking the stains on his sheets, and there’s only one way it could’ve happened.  
  
It’s not like Dean’s never had blood on his sheets before. It’s just that usually it’s on purpose, in very controlled circumstances. And this time isn’t. This was the very opposite of control. And therefore the very opposite of acceptable. It was complete recklessness. Selfishness. Complete abandonment to that dark and desperate thing inside Dean that’s been brimming to the surface far too often recently.  
  
Dean checks the sheets again. There’s only a few smatterings there, not enough to indicate major damage, but it’s still enough to turn Dean’s blood cold.  
  
“Dean?” Castiel’s voice comes up behind him, soft and concerned. Dean grips the sheets in his hands even tighter, and Castiel hisses in a breath when he sees them.  
  
“Cas…” Dean chokes out, but the other man hushes him before he can even get an apology out.  
  
“It’s alright, Dean, I’m fine. It happens sometimes.” Cas shrugs it off.  
  
“Not if we’re careful!” Dean snaps. Castiel flinches a little at the harsh reply, but then stops and gives Dean a small, patient smile.  
  
“Dean, you can’t control _everything_ , every second.” Castiel says gently, trying to appease him. But what Dean hears is, ‘You can’t control yourself.’ And that sickening pit in his stomach tightens again.  
  
Cas sighs and pulls him closer, leaning in to murmur in his ear, “If it makes you feel better, how about this weekend you only use my mouth?”  
  
Under any other circumstances, the offer would’ve sent Dean reeling with desire. They’d already spent entire weekends doing just that – Cas led around on a leash, servicing Dean with his mouth alone. His beautiful, fucking _perfect_ mouth.  
  
But Dean knew Castiel _hated_ having his ass ignored, which is partly why Dean did exactly that sometimes. So given the circumstances, the offer is not what Dean wants to hear right now. The complete selflessness of it… It’s the last thing Dean deserves.  
  
“Come on, let’s go make some dinner.” Castiel says, planting soft kisses against the back of Dean’s neck, stroking his thumbs soothingly across Dean’s skin where his hands rest on Dean’s shoulders. “Sam’s waiting.”  
  
Dean forces himself to suck down a few deep breaths until his fingers finally uncurl, letting go of the sheets. But as Castiel takes his hand and leads him out of the room, he still can’t shake that cold pit in his stomach, or force down the wave of memories that are suddenly threatening to spill over the edge.  
  
  
_~ flashback (skip) ~_  
  
  
Alastair found him just after his father died. It was a car crash. One that Dean barely escaped from himself. His dad had been driving them home after a barbecue at Bobby’s, when a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel smashed into the side of their car at an intersection. Dean was in a coma for days. Sam was lucky. He got away with a few cuts and bruises, a brief concussion. They said it was because he was on the other side of the car. They thought John had come out of it alright too at first, but then he’d suffered from some kind of heart complication, and died before Dean had even woken up.  
  
It’d been pretty rough on Sam, almost losing his brother as well as his dad at the same time. At the time though, Dean had his own guilt to carry. John’d had a little too much to drink at Bobby’s that night, and Dean knew it, but he hadn’t spoken up at the time, hadn’t wanted to have to take the car keys from his dad and drive instead like he knew he should’ve. And maybe if he had, he would’ve seen the truck coming, that split second sooner, and would’ve been able to do something different. And his dad wouldn’t be dead.  
  
After the funeral he and Sam ended up at a bar somewhere in his brother’s part of town, drowning themselves in alcohol, when this older guy had come over with his friend. He’d been a little creeped out by the yellowish tinge in the guy’s eyes at first, but ultimately he’d been too drunk to really give a crap about it. About anything, for that matter. He was tired of caring. Tired of feeling guilty. Tired of feeling. Period. Hence the copious amounts of alcohol. And besides, Sam obviously knew the guy, yellow eyes and all, so he barely noticed when his brother went off him somewhere, leaving him alone with the guy’s friend.  
  
Sam still feels guilty about it to this day, even though Dean’s forgiven him. Just like Dean will always feel guilty about things that Sam has long since forgiven him for. And really, this one should be on Dean. Because _Dean_ was the one that was too drunk to care about watching himself in a bar, in a notoriously gay part of town, around an older, _much_ more experienced man that was sending off predator vibes left, right, and center.  
  
Dean only remembers having one more drink, maybe two, before waking up in an unfamiliar bed, strapped down by his wrists and ankles on his stomach, with Alastair’s eyes crawling all over his naked skin.  
  
He might’ve panicked. He might’ve struggled. But when the first strike came down, Dean barely even felt it, he was so out of it. But as the strikes continued, his mind began to sharpen into a sickening clarity, until all he knew was the strike of a paddle against his bruised and welting flesh.  
  
Alastair paddled him until he was so numb from the pain and so full of endorphins that he just _took_ it when Alastair pushed into him. And then Alastair fucked the feeling right back into him, until he was sore and screaming, and when he couldn’t take it anymore Alastair made him come into the mattress so hard, he blacked out.  
  
The man knew what he was doing.  
  
He kept Dean tied up for three days. And by the fourth day, Dean was his willing little bitch. It was freedom. It was release. He didn’t have to think or do anything other than what Alastair told him to. Didn’t have to feel anything but what Alastair made him feel. And it was exactly what he’d needed.  
  
But it wasn’t long before the games escalated.  
  
They started fucking in public – dark alleys behind restaurants, bathrooms in bars, tied up to fences in empty playgrounds – Alastair pushing the boundaries of his limits and testing his obedience at every turn, but finding it strengthened at the end of every trial.  
  
Then one night, at a house party with Alastair’s friends, the man leaned over and whispered a command into Dean’s ear to undress, right there for everyone to see.  
  
Dean did as he was told, and no one blinked an eye. And that _should’ve_ set off some warning bells, but by then Dean was well-practised in ignoring them. Whatever boundaries Alastair thought he was pushing at simply didn’t exist anymore. He was obedient and willing.  
  
Alastair tied him up, gagged him, teased him with toys until he was hard, then strapped him tight. Then the man began clipping clothing pegs to his skin, all over, so that every minute movement Dean made he felt their pinch, on his chest, his nipples, his arms, his back, his legs, even his balls. And then Alastair tied strings to them all, and gave the ends to the watching guests to hold, and tug, and torment him, while Alastair took a vibrator to his cock and his hole, stimulating him to tears, over and over again, but never letting him come.  
  
And when the man was done with that game, he removed everything but Dean’s bonds, and flogged him until all the tiny red welts on his skin became one, all over. Made Dean call him ‘Master’ and beg for more.  
  
And then, for the pièce de résistance, he tied a collar to Dean’s neck and made him crawl around the room, servicing the men there with his mouth and his ass.  
  
It should have been horrific. And it was. The worst Alastair had put him through so far. But by then Dean felt no fear, no shame, no lingering guilt or remorse, not even a sense of self. He was completely and utterly mindless.  
  
And Alastair filled that perfect emptiness with whispered words of praise, telling Dean how pretty and how perfect he was, what a good pet he was and how much his obedience pleased him, as man after man split him open. And then, _finally_ , he let Dean come, all over himself with a dildo shoved up his ass, to the sound of glorious applause.  
  
Later that night though, when they were alone, Alastair’s tune changed. He called Dean a slut, and a whore, and beat him with a paddle until the sun came up. And even though Dean was beyond feeling, boneless, and barely conscious, Alastair spent the entire day with his dick inside him, marking him and claiming him over and over again until he was chafed raw and bleeding.  
  
It seemed whatever horror Alastair could think to inflict on Dean, there was always worse waiting for him.  
  
The private parties continued. As did the private punishments afterwards. But it was worse when they brought people home with them. Men or women for Dean to service while Alastair watched from a darkened corner of the room. It was more intimate than servicing a room full of strangers, and because of that, strangely, more difficult. But Dean did it. And it drove Alastair mad with jealousy and rage. Those nights, Alastair would whip him until he bled, then fuck him until he came screaming at Alastair’s command.  
  
Dean was so far gone in this dysfunctional dynamic, he never saw it coming. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care. But Alastair’s rages grew more and more out of control, until one weekend Sam had to get the building manager to break into Dean’s apartment, finding him cold and unconscious and lying in a pool of his own blood, an old wire coathanger unravelled and discarded on the floor beside him.  
  
They never saw Alastair again.  
  
Dean didn’t know enough about the man for the police to be able to track him down. He didn’t even know what Alastair did for a living. He’d never cared. But it seemed like the man had fallen off the face of the planet, and as long as it stayed that way, that was fine with Dean.  
  
While he was recovering in the hospital a counsellor came to see him. Tessa helped him through a lot those first weeks. Helped him start dealing with his feelings of guilt and grief, instead of running from them. Helped him start facing reality.  
  
Unfortunately, part of facing that reality was realising how far he’d let his little brother down as a result of his actions. While Dean was off playing Alastair’s pet, Sam had become enslaved in another way. And as soon as Dean was able to really _be there_ for his little brother, he convinced Sam to go into rehab.  
  
It wasn’t an easy time for either of them. Both so broken, and needing each other more than ever, but unable to see each other as much as they wanted while Sam was in the Centre. The Harvelle’s had really come through for them then, really looking out for them as they pieced themselves together again. And though it still hurt to have people who knew his Dad around, they’d really needed some semblance of family around even more.  
  
But even though Jo’s little crush on him had always been glaringly obvious, Dean ended up crawling back to his ex-girlfriend Lisa Braeden instead, hoping it would provide enough of a sense of normalcy to help him deal with everything that had happened.  
  
He just couldn't stay at his old place anymore. Not with that bloodstain on the floor that would never really wash away.  
  
A year after the night their father died, Sam dragged Dean into Bobby’s tattoo parlour to get inked together. Bobby helped them come up with the design - an ancient protection symbol of a star, inside a circle embellished with flames. But besides it looking badass, it meant something to them too. It was a reminder, a promise to always look out for each other, to protect each other from harm and help keep each other safe from the demons in their past.  
  
Dean never let a man near his ass again.  
  
But while he no longer had any desire to relive the Hell he’d been through, he couldn’t just forget what he’d experienced either. Once your mind has been to a place, you can’t unthink it.  
  
No matter what Dean tried, it was too late. Alastair had carved a new animal. And no amount of bendy, adventurous sex with Lisa Braeden could fix it.  
  
Then Dean found The Pit. An endless line of strangers waiting to be taken, tormented and teased, no strings attached. And he had control again.  
  
  
_~ end flashback ~_  
  
  
When Dean finally steps into the kitchen after Cas, Sam is still blushing furiously, stammering in embarrassment and unable to really look either of them in the eye for very long. And if Dean wasn’t in such a foul mood he would’ve found it hilarious, but as it is, it just adds to the tension in the room.  
  
Castiel does his best to try and diffuse it though, trying to calm him down by touching him whenever possible, at one point even trying to get Dean to taste the Carbonara sauce off his fingers, teasing Dean with the reminder of his earlier offer. Dean plays along, for his brother’s sake. But every gesture only serves to remind him even more acutely how little he deserves it, every kindness like a nail, sealing his guilt.  
  
They all end up drinking more than they should, to compensate for the tension in the air. Only once Sam relaxes enough to start talking again, Dean really wishes he doesn’t.  
  
“So Cas, that’s some impressive tattoo work you’ve got there.”  
  
And _of course_ Sam would ask. He got a pretty good view of Cas’ back earlier, and those wings were hard to miss. But Sam doesn’t know how close to home that subject is right now.  
  
“Thank you, Sam.” Cas replies, a slight terseness in his voice that only Dean picks up on. Even Cas knows the topic is sensitive for Dean, and Cas doesn’t even know why.  
  
“When’d you get them done?” Sam asks.  
  
“Um…” Cas turns around, shooting Dean a furtive glance before taking a deep breath “I got it shortly after I came out to my family.” Cas replies, “They were very… _traditional_ … and with the exception of a few of my siblings, they basically cut me off.”  
  
“I’m so sorry.” Sam replies sympathetically.  
  
“It’s alright, Sam.” Cas replies with a small smile. “Things are better for me now. So I got the wings as a reminder… to live free.”  
  
Cas shares a smile with Sam at that, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. But Dean looks away, grinding his teeth and unable to look at the other man.  
  
Free.  
  
As a bird.  
  
Ready to fly away no matter how many times Dean chains him up or ties him down.  
  
And therein lies the problem.  
  
It’s implied in the nature of their dynamic that Dean ‘owns’ Castiel in a way. Dean is the ‘Master’ after all, Castiel the submissive. And therefore Dean is free of ownership. He is his own Master.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
What Dean knows now, is that domination is not just about having power, it’s about the _control_ of power. And ownership is about _self_ -control. Therefore Dean is controlled by it. Bound by it.  
  
He thought it was the other way around, but it’s not. He thought he owned Cas, but _Cas owns him_. And Cas doesn’t even know it. Hasn’t even staked a claim.  
  
Dean knows Cas trusts him completely, otherwise he wouldn’t let Dean do all the things he does to him. But that trust was now becoming a binding of its own. Too constricting for Dean to bear. While Cas? Cas was still free. And growing so, _so_ strong.  
  
Dean knows well enough how little care one can have for their Master. And how easily that devotion can be lost. How tenuous the bond can be, reliant not so much on the man himself, but what the man can provide. _How_ _well_ he can provide it.  
  
And Dean knows how a man can go mad trying to hang onto something he is afraid to lose.  
  
And that’s why Dean has been pushing the limits so hard lately. Trying so hard to make some kind of _real_ claim on Castiel, not just the pretend roles they usually play. And now that he knows this, it makes Dean sick to his stomach, because he knows exactly the kind of monster he’s turning into.  
  
They all get a little too drunk over dinner, for their own reasons, and when Cas and his brother finally pass out, Dean slinks quietly to his bathroom.  
  
He needs out. He needs air. He needs… _something_ to deal with all the god-awful things crawling around in his brain. Drinking had only made it worse.  
  
He splashes some water on his face over the sink, trying to get a grip on himself. But when he opens the cupboard behind the mirror for some Aspirin, he sees something that reminds him _exactly_ where he needs to go.  
  
The little stick of eyeliner hasn’t been used in so long it’s cracked and dry, but with a few dabs of water Dean gets it soft enough to use again. He grabs some black jeans out of his closet, a leather vest to match, both easy and quick to get out of if he needs to. Then he throws a long leather coat over it all to keep himself warm, and heads out into the night.

  
~ _tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback Summary: Dean gets really drunk at a gay bar after John dies drink-driving and Alastair basically abducts him for a few days. It's not SSC/RACK at that point, but I labelled it dub-con because Dean ends up enjoying it, since it effectively takes his mind off his guilt over John's death (Negative Reinforcement). Afterwards Alastair makes Dean sub in threesomes and at parties, and while Dean generally enjoys that part, Alastair becomes increasingly jealous and violent to the extent that Dean is hospitalized - but those scenes are not explicitly depicted, only mentioned in the aftermath.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."  
\-- The Tempest, Act I scene ii_

~

  
It’s been a while since Dean’s been to The Pit. But whether it’s been 4 months or 40 years, Dean thinks it wouldn’t make a difference, he’d probably still be able to find the place with his eyes closed. As it is, he doesn’t raise his head once the whole, long, walk over. Lost in his own head, his feet lead the way, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of 426 Bleeker St.  
  
If you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably walk right past it. The only thing that marks the spot is a single neon sign that says ‘426’. In fact, the place isn’t actually called The Pit. He’s not even sure what it’s official name is. But everyone who knows it, calls it ‘The Pit’.  
  
It looks for all the world like an abandoned warehouse, and it’s a pretty dubious part of town, but if you listen hard enough, you might hear the bass beat of a drum kick coming from somewhere within, maybe see the windows rattling from the sheer volume of the electric guitar pumping through the place.  
  
Dean pounds his fist on the door. And it’s ridiculously cliché, but a small strip of it slides open at eye-level, the light coming through it quickly obscured by a large head. Dean looks up.  
  
“I’m here to see Chief.” he says.  
  
The window slams shut. Dean hears the scrape of metal, the slide of chains and the turning of locks, before the large door swings open, and he’s let inside.  
  
“Cerberus.” Dean nods to the large man behind the door. The man eyes him up and down, chest crossed over with thick arms, tattooed dogs running up and down their length.  
  
“Long time, Dean.” he says, the corners of his lips pursing up into his version of a smile.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean replies, unable to bring himself to return it. “Yeah.” he repeats distractedly, not in the mood for small talk. Cerberus takes the hint, silently leading him across the dimly lit foyer to the next door. As he waits for the man to unhinge it’s heavy lock Dean sighs, reading the sign that still hangs there above the doorway:  
  
‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’  
  
The door opens, and Dean flinches, unused to the assaulting volume of music after so long. It’s guitar heavy, filled with screams that should only come from the dying, but ultimately, it’s familiar. And by the time the door closes behind him, the breath he exhales is a sigh of relief.  
  
He scans the bar for a moment, it’s PVC and leather clad patrons littering the couches inside, or pressed up against it’s blood red walls, mostly locked at the lips and halfway ready to take a trip downstairs. At this time of the night, not many people are here to socialize. They mostly know what they’re their for. And the volume of the music tends to discourage conversation anyway. Or at least encourages you to press up real close if you _did_ have something to say. Mostly it was there to mask any other kind of noise, create an illusion of privacy if you found yourself moaning in a dark corner with someone’s hand down your pants.  
  
Dean nods at the bartender and Charon returns the greeting, gesturing at one of the free seats at the bar. There’s a couple playing coins there, a few other lone drinkers that would usually make for interesting prospects, but that’s not what Dean wants tonight, so he shakes off the invitation. Besides, he’d already sobered up on the walk over, and he doesn’t want to undo that now.  
  
He goes past the bar, through the back exit, around the twisting hallway past the bathrooms, until he sees the next curtained doorway. Lifting the heavy red material, he steps through it’s parted center, into another large room. Chief’s room.  
  
The music isn’t as loud in here, it’s only a distant hum that you almost had to strain to hear. No, the soundtrack to this room is created entirely by Chief himself, the sound of his flogger cutting through the air, and it’s strike against naked flesh, the cries of his current volunteer at every blow, and the moans and murmurs from those who watch.  
  
It’s easy to see Chief from where Dean stands at the back of the room, elevated as the man is on a small platform that is his stage, and centred right under a light that isn’t really a spotlight, but serves as such, being the brightest point in the room. From there the light slowly fades out over the seated spectators, blanketing the couches and ottomans in the farthest corners of the room in darkness.  
  
But this is a room for tourists. And Dean’s seen it all before. Nor does he think Chief’s stageshow of punishment is going to be enough for him tonight, no matter how fresh he is again after being out of the game for so long.  
  
Dean exits through the curtain, back into the hallway, and this time makes the turn for the stairs. The music is louder here again, filling the enclosed, vacant space, and keeps Dean company as he descends to the next level. He hesitates as he steps into the hallway though, unsure of where he wants to go next, of what he wants to do, or what he _needs_ to.  
  
To his right are the private rooms, small bedrooms available for anyone’s use, and from them Dean can hear the sound of whips and gasps and the steady banging pulse of a headboard against one of the walls. To his left is the coatroom, a small service area next to the bathrooms where you can leave behind anything for safekeeping, pick up anything you might need but couldn’t bring with you, or just purchase another drink. And _through_ the coatroom, is another large room, like Chief’s. But in this room, no one puts on a show for you. You’re part of the show.  
  
It’s the free for all. The orgy room. The room with more beds than couches. Where chains hang from the walls and slings hang from the mirrored ceilings. Where people get spanked or fucked over the glass tables, while others lie naked, touching themselves, watching from underneath. Where masters bring their pets to perform, to service, and punish, and claim, for all to see.  
  
Dean’s spent his fair share of time in this room too, but the mere thought of going in there now makes his stomach churn a little, already making him feel sick with the guilt of betrayal.  
  
He doesn’t want anyone else. Only Cas.  
  
And yeah, maybe it took until just now to admit that to himself.  
  
Hell he doesn’t think he could go through with it even if he tried. But he doesn’t have to think about it anymore, because now he knows what he needs.  
  
Dean turns back to the stairs, and heads for the basement.  
  
The music follows him down the stairwell again, but when he reaches the bottom, there is a door beyond which no music passes. He bangs on it three times, and another window slides open, sharp eyes assessing him through it.  
  
“Dean. Been a while.”  
  
“Yeah T. I know.” he replies. ‘T’ is supposedely short for ‘Tartarus’, the name of the abyss beneath Hades where the prisoners received punishment befitting their crimes. Dean doesn't know if that’s the man’s real name or not, but it’s sure as hell appropriate for what Dean came looking for.  
  
“You need a rack?” T asks.  
  
“Nah, not tonight. Actually I was wondering if anyone was free.” he says. And as nonchalant as he tries to play it, there’s still a moment of silence behind the door that speaks of surprise. But moments of surprise don’t last long in places like this though, and the conversation is quickly recovered.  
  
“Meg’s just finishing up.”  
  
“Awesome.” Dean says, and almost immediately the window slides shut and the door is being unlocked.  
  
Dean steps into the hallway, another twisting place lined with curtained doorways, leading to the semi-private rooms where the Masters work. They can get away with leaving the doors only curtained here, because if you were down here in the first place, you were trusted enough to behave with a certain amount of decorum, and most importantly, discretion. You were only let in here by invitation, or by reputation, and once Dean had been invited in, he earned himself enough of a rep to be called a Master himself.  
  
And most Masters like an audience. So the curtains are ultimately for everyone’s benefit. The spectators can come and go as they please, without creating any interruption in a Master’s focus. And if a Master should decide they want privacy, all it took was a velvet rope across the door, and the guests were trusted enough to respect that.  
  
Unfortunately, Megara is the kind of Master who prefers an audience. She likes the sound of her own voice too much, and needs a crowd to play to when her volunteers are too far gone to appreciate it. Dean doesn’t like her much. Of the female Masters that work the rooms down there, he usually would’ve preferred Kali, but her brand of punishment focuses too much on the erotic for what Dean needs at the moment. And he doesn’t want any of the men down there to touch him either. Meg will do. He doesn’t like her, but at least she knows what she’s doing.  
  
He follows T through the curtain to Meg’s room, where someone is currently being uncuffed from the rack and helped down. T speaks with the leather-clad Mistress for a second, and her eyes flare with surprise when she sees Dean standing in the doorway, but then quickly light up with a dangerous leer.  
  
“Heya Deano! It’s sure been a while. What brings you to _my_ parlour?” she asks gleefully, walking over.  
  
“Cut the chit-chat Meg, you know why I’m here.” he growls.  
  
“Poor baby, had a bad day?” she smirks. Dean glares at her and she raises an eyebrow at him, finally sensing he means business. “Well then,” she says, her smile a little more professional now, “Let me work those kinks out of your shoulders.” she says, stepping back and gesturing towards the rack.  
  
The rack, as Meg had joked, is a lot like a massage table. It’s a plank-like, padded bed, that slides open and bends in the middle if you unlock it, and has a head support that you can put your face through if you lie on your stomach.  
  
The difference here is that the whole thing is mounted on a large metal frame, which enables the bed to be secured in it’s normal horizontal position, or upright in a vertical position, or any number of positions between. And there are chains. Chains with leather cuffs on the end of them, to secure wrists or ankles to the hooks on the frame in whatever position required. And some chains that Dean’s pretty sure are just there for decoration. Because everything's better with a little bit of metal. _And_ they make nice clanking sounds when the beatings _really_ set in.  
  
One of Meg’s minions has just finished wiping the bed down, and the padding of it gleams in the low light like a beacon, drawing him forward. He pulls off his vest as he approaches it, and ignores the surprised murmurs from the darkened edges of the room, the old regulars who are used to seeing him dole out punishment instead of take it.  
  
He doesn’t care what they think. This isn’t the time for it. This is the time for not caring. Not thinking. For giving up control. Completely. He just wants to hurt. To _bleed_. Like he deserves to.  
  
He shucks off his shoes and socks as he sits down on the bed, then undoes his belt and his fly as well before he stretches out, face down. One of Meg’s minions starts cuffing his wrists above his head, and he feels the hands of another minion at his waist, pulling his pants and boxers down off his legs.  
  
Dean shivers as his skin is exposed to naked air. It’s not cold in the room, even the padding on the bed is still warm, but as the last layers of his clothes come off, he begins to feel a nervous anticipation in his gut, somewhere between thrill and dread. And as his legs are parted, cuffed by the ankles to the frame, it _washes_ over him, like a giant wave released from a dam as the last lock clicks into place, securing him to the rack. He hasn’t been in this position for years. Hasn’t been this vulnerable or exposed, and it sends him into a dead panic for a moment, struggling against his restraints.  
  
But then the rack starts shifting, chains clanking loudly as it’s shifted to it’s upright position, and Dean feels his weight shifting, pulling at his arms as his wrists become the main support for his body, and his struggling just adds unnecessary strain, pain that will create it’s own punishment if continued.  
  
He forces himself the breathe, to stop struggling, and then Meg’s face appears in front of him through the hole in the mattress.  
  
“Let’s ride.” she smirks, before leaning in and shoving her tongue in Dean’s mouth. Dean grimaces, any last vestiges of panic replaced with utter disgust, and he almost wants to spit at her when she finally pulls away, but he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction.  
  
“What is that?” Dean licks his lips instead, as if trying to identify a taste. “Peanut butter?” he snarks, and her smirk vanishes.  
  
“I could gag you, you know.” she threatens, “But that would be too easy wouldn’t it?” she sneers knowingly. “And I’d much rather beat that sass out of you instead.” she adds, before disappearing from view. Dean grinds his jaw at that. Now that she’s brought it up, he realizes it would have been easier to be gagged, because then he wouldn't have to speak, or reply at all. Wouldn't have to _think_ at all. Submitting himself to Meg’s punishment means he has to deal with her verbal diarrhoea as well, and that might be the greater challenge.  
  
As Meg’s footsteps reapproach, Dean hears a whizzing sound in the air, a couple of testing slaps against skin, and he’s pretty sure he knows what she’s picked up first. He can almost see it in his head, the smirk on her face as she walks up behind him, riding crop in hand, smacking the small square of leather at the end of it against her palm. It’s a good tool to use on fresh skin. Strike light enough and it’s nothing more than a teasing flick of leather. Strike harder and the entire length of it will act as a cane, leaving a searing line of heat across your skin.  
  
Meg strokes the end of it up the back of his leg, pushing and prodding the meat of his ass with it before she flicks the leather end against him.  
  
“Don’t tease.” he growls.  
  
The next second he feels the heat of her body pressed against his back. “You’re on _my_ time now Deano. And _I_ will decide what you do or do not need.” she hisses into his ear.  
  
Dean grits his teeth again, trying to lean away from her. But then she steps back on her own, and the next strike she reigns on him is a lot closer to what he expected. His eyes fly wide as he hisses in a sharp breath, his muscles clenching in reflex, but it takes a second for the shock to wear off before he actually starts to feel the sting of pain. When he does, he almost sighs in relief, but before he can even begin to exhale Meg strikes him again, on the other cheek, just as hard.  
  
“Why are you here, Dean?” she sighs audibly, as if she’s bored. Even as if she’s a little disappointed. As if she hasn’t begun a steady rhythm of blows across his ass. “Have you been a _baaaad_ boy?” she coos ridiculously, adding another strike.  
  
“Answer the question!” she screeches suddenly in his ear.  
  
“Yes!” Dean yells, mostly out of surprise, and he can almost _see_ the smirk in her self-satisfied snicker.  
  
She pulls back again, circling him, pausing to run the end of the crop up the back of one of his thighs, thick with muscle and providing a good amount of flesh to mark as well.  
  
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Dean…” she comments, trailing the end of the crop down the back of his other thigh, and Dean can’t help but shiver at the tease of it on his skin, the anticipation of it.  
  
“Bet you’ve found yourself a pet, haven’t you?” she says, and Dean hisses in a small breath again, surprised at how quickly she’d guessed correctly.  
  
“What was that?” she asks mockingly, striking his thigh.  
  
“Yes!” he yells out at the sting.  
  
“Now now Dean, don’t forget to answer.” she taunts, striking his other thigh.  
  
“Yes!” he snaps, trying to twist around and glare at her.  
  
As if he doesn’t know how this works.  
  
She picks up her rhythm again, trailing her blows down the backs of his legs, and he can already feel that strange numbness tingling in his skin where it’s begun to welt, and how much more sensitive the flesh is to the pain of each strike as they continue.  
  
“Boy or girl?” she asks, and then she cackles, “Bet it’s a boy.”  
  
“Yes.” Dean replies, clenching his fists. He doesn’t like how easily she’s reading him, but it _is_ what makes her so good at what she does, so he just grits his teeth and bears it.  
  
“He must really be something to keep you away for so long.” she says, appearing in his line of vision again and leering into his face.  
  
“Yes.” he hisses, glaring at her venomously. She takes the glare with a grin, and nods, as if she's found… whatever it is she was looking for. Then she circles back around, reigning down the crop again, and Dean begins to growl at some of her blows.  
  
“So why are you here, Dean?” she asks, that earlier boredom in her voice again, laced with disappointment. “Did you have a _lovers_ quarrel?” she jeers, holding her strikes for his answer.  
  
“No.” Dean replies, indignant. She strikes him again, this time using the full length of the crop, and the pain is enough to steal his breath away.  
  
“But something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she does it again, and this time Dean is grateful for it, snarling into his arm to cover up his reluctance to answer. Meg doesn’t care. “Something’s come between you.” she strikes again. “Hasn’t it?” Another. “And you don’t know how to make it better.” Again and again. “You don’t know how to fix it, like any normal, _healthy_ person would.” she mocks him, gleefully, “You don’t even know where to begin!”  
  
Dean cries out, unable to hold it in anymore. Unable to care. Not even enough to feel ashamed at how quickly Meg is taking him apart, both physically and mentally.  
  
But then she stops, and suddenly she’s in his face again, cupping his jaw and holding him up so he _has_ to look at her.  
  
“I bet you haven’t told him a _thing_ about you.” she says quietly, and there’s almost something sympathetic in her eyes when she looks at him that makes Dean’s skin crawl and sends his stomach plummeting through his knees. He doesn’t know how, but she _knows_.  
  
He wants to spit in her face, scream, or claw her eyes out… _anything_ to get her to stop looking at him like that. But then she says, “He was my Master too."  
  
And everything goes still. It’s just the two of them there, staring at each other in silence, no one else in the room, nothing else in the world but the harsh reminder of this ugly _thing_ inside him that he just can’t seem to escape.  
  
Meg sighs, dropping her eyes and pulling her hand away from his face, leaving his line of vision all together. She offers no other revelations, no other solutions, but to resume the game they have begun.  
  
“You’re afraid to tell him aren’t you?” she sneers, whipping him viciously. And Dean doesn’t even bother trying to pretend he can’t answer, because she obviously knows what’s in his head. She whips him harder anyway, hard enough to make him cry out, hard enough that he couldn’t find the words even if he tried, and again, he’s grateful for it, because it’s exactly what he needs.  
  
“You’re afraid to show him how weak you are! How much you need him!” she exclaims, not even bothering to make it a question as she lays into him. “I bet you haven’t even told him you love him yet!” she yells, and when Dean sobs then, it’s not because of her whip. “Because you don’t think you deserve-- _What?!_ ” Meg snaps suddenly, pausing mid-strike.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees one of Meg’s cronies rush forward to murmur in Meg’s ear, and whatever the girl says turns Meg’s annoyed frown into the kind of grin that Dean knows can only mean trouble. Meg nods, and the girl turns back to the doorway.  
  
“Wait!” Meg calls out before the girl can get very far. “He got a name?” Meg asks, not looking at the girl, but watching Dean instead.  
  
“Castiel.” the girl replies.  
  
“Cas?!” Dean gasps. And Meg is a _very_ good Mistress. Because in that one gasp she catches Dean’s fear, and shame, and need, and everything else he’s got pent up inside… and does exactly what he’s afraid of.  
  
“Let him in.”

  
~ _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

_"The path to paradise begins in hell."  
\-- Dante Alighieri_

~

  
Of all the things Dean thought might happen when he came back to The Pit tonight, having Cas actually find him there? _Never_ crossed his mind. And now, Dean’s scared. What will Cas think, when he sees Dean here like this? Naked? Tied up? So obviously the plaything of Meg’s twisted enjoyment? What will Cas say, when Dean can’t deny that he willingly submitted to this? _Wanted_ this? _Needed_ this? And how will Cas react, when he realizes how much Dean has been hiding from him?  
  
It’s almost too much to bear thinking about, and if Dean had any sense left in him, he would get _the hell_ out of there. But as it is, he’s utterly frozen, trapped by fear far more binding than the heavy cuffs at his wrists and ankles.  
  
Meg doesn’t even turn around when her minion goes to the doorway and pulls the curtain open. She just gets right up in Dean’s face again, eating up every little nuance of his reaction as Castiel enters the room.  
  
He can’t bring himself to look at first. But then he hears Cas stop, just a few feet away, and he can _feel_ Cas’ eyes on him, taking in the whole damn scene, and it's impossible to fight the pull any longer.  
  
Dean recognises his own leather pants, slung low on Castiel’s hips, and what must be one of his own black t-shirts, a little loose on Castiel’s smaller frame… But the fact that Castiel is wearing his clothes at all, and in _public_ , makes him want to fall to his knees and scent Cas like a dog, whine at the thought of his own smell all over Cas’ skin. It’s like Cas is wearing Dean’s ownership, for everyone to see, and the desire it provokes in Dean is so sharp, it shaves away some of the edge of his fear.  
  
His reaction must be good enough for Meg to finally look, and her eyes light up when she sees what’s come through the door.  
  
“Well, _well,_ Deano!” she croons appreciatively, slowly circling Castiel with an assessing gaze. “ _Not bad_.” she leers, and Dean strains against his bonds, clenching his fists and jaw against the curses threatening to spill from his mouth. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at Castiel, like she’s feeling him up with her eyes, imagining which parts she wants to play with first.  
  
No one but Dean gets to look at Cas like that, ever.  
  
“Face of an angel, this one.” Meg coos, grabbing Cas’ chin… and that’s it.  
  
But before Dean can tell Meg to go fuck herself, Cas grabs her wrist, twisting her hand away from his face and yanking her forward until she’s flush against his body, and then he’s kissing the _hell_ out of her.  
  
Dean’s jaw drops, too far jolted from shock to be angry at what’s happening, or even confused to begin with.  
  
“What was _that_ for?” Meg breaths when Cas lets her go, gasping for air and face flushed in a way Dean’s rarely ever seen.  
  
“For taking care of him.” Cas says, matter-of-factly. “Now it’s my turn.” he adds, taking the riding crop from her now lax grip. She stumbles backwards without any argument, and that must’ve been some kiss, because Dean’s never known Meg to let _anyone_ tell her what to do.  
  
But then again, Dean knows exactly what Castiel’s kiss can do to someone.  
  
Castiel steps towards the rack, and he’s so close Dean can almost smell him, but he can’t _see_ him anymore. Cas is walking around him, behind him, and again Dean feels the tangible weight of Cas’ eyes on his skin, red with welted lines, criss-crossed all the way down his backside and legs.  
  
Suddenly Dean’s having difficulty breathing. He can’t run. He can’t even hide. Bare and exposed and feeling more vulnerable than he has in a long time. Not even including the past hour.  
  
Then suddenly, Dean feels the crop again. Just a touch, but it’s _Cas_ touching him, _seeing_ him, and that alone makes him sob out. He clamps his mouth shut against the sound as soon as it escapes his throat, burying his face in his arm and trying to muffle it, but Cas doesn’t stop, tracing the lines of his welts with the end of the crop, and he can’t stop _whimpering_. It’s like Cas is inspecting him, discovering exactly what he’s let Meg do to him, every strike and taunt, And by the time Cas circles all the way around, finally standing in front of him, Dean is a trembling mess.  
  
He can’t bring himself to look Castiel in the eye, not even when he feels Cas’ fingers on his chin, raising his face.  
  
“Please look at me, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, the slight tremor in his voice soft enough for only Dean to hear.  
  
Dean takes a deep breath, and finally raises his eyes. There’s a sadness in Castiel’s gaze that Dean’s seen before, but this time it’s almost unbearable, because _Dean_ is the one that caused it.  
  
“How did you find me?” he rasps, his voice hoarse from abuse, and fear.  
  
“Sam told me everything.”  
  
Dean heart stops altogether. Because from the look on Castiel’s face when he says “everything”… he means _everything_.  
  
Dean hears a rattling sound, distant and loud at the same time. And then he realises it’s coming from _him_ , his chains, as he struggles against his bonds, trying to get away.  
  
But then Cas swoops in close, and kisses him.  
  
Dean goes still, completely taken by surprise.  
  
And then he sinks into it, the realisation of how much he’d needed Cas to kiss him then, _washing_ over him.  
  
But at the same time, he can sense how different Cas’ kiss feels, heavy with newfound knowledge, and so many things still unresolved.  
  
Cas pulls away, pressing their foreheads together, “I understand why you didn’t tell me.” he whispers, stroking Dean’s face. “Why you _couldn’t_ tell me.” he adds. And then he steps back, his face hardening, “But that doesn’t make it alright.”  
  
Castiel disappears from view altogether then, and Dean’s stomach drops. He starts to panic again, whatever endorphins Meg had coaxed out of his stinging flesh, long gone. But then he realises Castiel’s footsteps haven’t gone very far. Instead Dean hears Cas’s voice in low conversation nearby, before Dean hears a familiar whir through the air, and the sound of a few testing slaps against a hand.  
  
He doesn’t have to look to recognise the sound of a flogger, thick with leather and short for speed. Thick enough that it’ll probably hurt as much as a paddle if used hard enough, but unlike a paddle, there’s no danger of any bones breaking. Just skin.  
  
Dean’s heart races. He can barely even process what’s happening. What’s _about_ to happen.  
  
The minutes are _endless_. _Waiting_.  
  
And then he feels it. The first touch.  
  
It’s not the sharp strike he was expecting. Merely a caress, licking across the still red welts on his ass, and the many cool tongues of leather against his heated skin make him shiver. But at the same time there’s something almost gentle in the way Castiel strokes his skin, as if trying to sooth away the pain, the very memory of it, and Dean finds himself moaning at the touch.  
  
But Cas could’ve picked up a feather if that was all he wanted to do, so Dean knows this is all just a prelude to what’s coming.  
  
Sure enough, before long, he feels the first testing strike against his skin. It’s barely enough to hurt, but knowing it’s the first time Cas has ever done anything like this is enough to provoke a reaction. He gasps, feeling the first twitch of arousal between his legs, and instantly craves more.  
  
Instead of another strike though, Cas whips him softly, quickly, circling the flogger, all over. And while Dean is a little disappointed, he knows what Cas is doing. He really _is_ trying to erase what Meg’s done to him, using the span of the flogger’s contact to make his entire backside red and welted, and in doing so effectively erasing the sharp lines left from the thin length of the crop before.  
  
The contact is light, but Dean’s skin begins to throb with that strange combination of swelling numbness and stinging pain anyway. Eventually Cas is satisfied, all of Meg’s marks replaced with his own, fresh and red, and Dean receives another sharp strike on the flesh of his ass.  
  
He gasps again, wriggling his hips, unable to stop himself from rubbing his growing erection into the padded bed of the rack.  
  
“Stop that.” Cas commands, striking him again, and Dean whines in his throat as he tries to force himself still.  
  
“You will not seek release until I let you, do you understand?” Castiel says. Dean nods, still overwhelmed at how fast his arousal is taking over him.  
  
“I didn’t hear you.” Castiel hits him again.  
  
“Yes!” Dean rasps, the impact pushing his erection into the bed again, and he practically shakes from the effort it takes to not rub into it like he wants to.  
  
“I’m very disappointed, Dean. That you couldn’t talk to me about this.” Castiel murmurs, striking him again. “That you couldn’t trust me, when I have trusted you with _everything_.”  
  
Once more Cas strikes, hard and true.  
  
“From now on, you will trust me. As I have trusted you.” Castiel orders, with another.  
  
“Yes!” Dean gasps his reply.  
  
“You will tell me _everything_.” Another snap of leather. “No more holding back.” And another.  
  
For a moment, Dean has difficulty finding the breath to reply. And it’s not entirely from Castiel’s blows.  
  
“…Yes!” he finally relents.  
  
“You will _give_ me everything.” Leather meets skin. "As I have given you.”  
  
“…Yes!” Dean sobs.  
  
“And you will _never, let, anyone, but ME, TOUCH you, like THIS, EVER, AGAIN!_ ” Castiel yells, punctuating his words with strikes so hard and fast that Dean cries out with every one.  
  
“Yes! _Yes_ , Cas! Yes!” Dean screams at the end of it, shaking like the chains of his bonds, still rattling from the successive impact. He barely registers the sound of the flogger dropping to the floor, as in the next moment Cas is pressed up along his back, pressing frantic kisses all over his neck and shoulders, clutching and stroking at his body with possessive hands.  
  
“You belong to me now. Understand?” Cas gasps into his ear.  
  
“Yes!” Dean whimpers as he turns his head to meet Castiel’s lips. It’s a far cry from Castiel’s earlier kiss, now deep and hard and claiming every inch of his mouth, and all too soon it’s over. But then Castiel’s lips are back on his skin again, every kiss followed with whispers of " _Mine!_ " or " _Dean!_ ", covering his neck, spread across his shoulders, slowly mouthing down the knobs of his spine, until Cas finally has to drop to his knees to continue his worshipful trail. He grabs onto Dean’s hips, pulling them back and forcing Dean to jut out his backside, and Dean is half-grateful that the position pulls his cock away from the mattress. Castiel’s kisses are wet and sloppy against his stinging flesh, and Dean doesn’t think he could stop himself from rubbing up against the bed if he tried.  
  
But then Cas reaches back to part his cheeks, and his lips begin to move inwards, and Dean’s knees begin to shake, his breaths coming in short gasps.  
  
Finally Cas presses a soft, reverent kiss against his hole, and Dean stiffens, yanking himself away.  
  
“Hellhound!” he gasps, trying to twist out of Cas’ grip. “Hellhound!”  
  
Cas lets go of him as soon as he hears the safeword, rushing into Dean’s line of vision again.  
  
“Are you alright? What is it?” Cas asks worriedly.  
  
Dean shakes his head, hiding his face in his arm again, too overwhelmed for words.  
  
No one's touched him there since...  
  
And now Cas wants...  
  
Dean doesn't know if he can go through with it.  
  
After a moment he feels Castiel’s fingers in his hair, combing through it with soothing strokes, tracing the line of his jaw in a familiar caress.  
  
“Dean?” Castiel murmurs, his voice still filled with concern.  
  
“Gimme a minute okay? It’s just… a lot.” he mumbles.  
  
“Too much?” Cas asks quietly.  
  
“… Maybe.” Dean admits. Castiel sighs, leaning in close enough for Dean to feel his breath against the shell of his ear.  
  
“Dean, you’re doing _so_ well.” Castiel murmurs, placing a soft kiss against his temple. “You’ve been _so_ strong.” Cas whispers, kissing him again, “Now _please_ let me do this for you.” he pleads, “I would do _anything_ for you. Even this.” he takes a shaky breath, “I love you so much, Dean, _please_ let me in.”  
  
Dean lifts his head, stunned. And what he sees in Castiel’s eyes… floors him.  
  
He nods, completely lacking the air to speak.  
  
Castiel kisses him again, soft again, soothing him, but it’s also a promise, and thank you, and so many other things Dean can’t believe he didn’t know until now. He wants to stay there in that moment, just him and Cas, no one else, nowhere else… But it seems Cas is far from finished with him yet.  
  
Cas pulls away, looking up at where Dean’s wrists are cuffed, one chain roped through a hook on the top bar of the rack, connecting both cuffs. Dean’s ankles are strapped separately, keeping his legs slightly spread, and it’s there Castiel goes next. Uncuffing them, he guides Dean around, strapping him in again so his back is laying against the bed of the rack.  
  
The change of position is disorients Dean for a moment, making him feel exposed again. He’d already gotten used to the view on the other side of the room, blurred out the watching faces until they didn’t exist anymore. Now there’s a whole new crowd of eyes on him, his erection standing up for their greedy inspection. But the endorphins rushing through his body again help him ease into it a lot faster this time, and when Castiel stands up to kiss him again he no longer cares about anything else.  
  
Cas places one last peck on his lips before quickly turning away, as if removing his lips from Dean’s is becoming more difficult each time. It is for Dean, and he practically whines at the loss.  
  
“ _Please._ ” Dean whimpers. Castiel’s back stiffens at the plea, his head turning back minutely towards Dean, but then he turns around again, his voice low in discussion with someone behind the tray of toys. A woman emerges from behind Cas, one of Meg’s cronies, walking around to the back of the rack. And then it’s moving, pulling Dean backwards.  
  
After the initial jolt of surprise passes, he watches Cas for some indication of what’s about to happen, but still Cas doesn’t turn. Instead Cas lifts the hem of the shirt he’s wearing, pulling it over his head and off his arms, exposing the wings tattooed down back. Those same wings Dean had tied over with ropes only this afternoon.  
  
It seemed like a lifetime ago.  
  
Dean can’t see how the viewers react as the rack pulls him further back into a horizontal position, but he hears the appreciative murmur that rises at the sight. He feels that possessive twinge in his stomach again, uncomfortable with other people looking at Castiel, but tells himself that those wings deserve the attention. The admiration, and respect. Probably more than one man can give.  
  
As long as they don’t touch.  
  
He doesn’t have much time to stew over it though, as the rack is finally locked into place, and his eyes are drawn to the ceiling. He knows what he’s going to see there, but it’s still a shock. The mirrors hide nothing. The liner around his eyes is smudged and streaked down his face, betraying tears he didn’t even know he’d let fall. Didn’t even know when. But his eyes are… glazed, uncaring. Not distant, just… unashamed. His skin is flushed red, all over, chest heaving. His erection is still needy, bulging between his spread legs.  
  
The minion from before unlocks his ankle cuffs from the bars around the bed, giving him more space to move, but there’s still chains attached to the cuffs, that clink and rattle as he stretches out his legs. It’s been a long time since he’s been strapped down like this, and he’s not used to it anymore.  
  
He could get used to it again though, if Castiel keeps looking at him the way he is now, like Dean is the only other person in the universe.  
  
When he sees the way Cas is staring, he stops his restless fidgeting immediately. Entranced, he watches as Cas’ hands reach towards himself, finding his fly and unzipping. He’s not wearing anything underneath, and Dean hisses in a sharp breath of want as Castiel pushes his pants down, and his erection bobs free. Another excited murmur rises from the small crowd watching, but Dean barely cares. It’s only him and Cas now, alone in a space of their own creation, becoming smaller and smaller as the distance between them closes.  
  
As he climbs onto the foot of the rack, Cas pushes Dean’s legs father apart, making more space for himself as he crawls forward, leaning down to plant butterfly kisses up the insides of Dean’s thighs. Dean can’t lift his head to see, arms chained above his head as they are, so instead he lets his head fall back, thankful for the mirror that allows him _some_ kind of view.  
  
He sees the back of Cas’ unruly head, inching ever upwards, the muscles under his wings straining and shifting as he moves. And further down, between Cas’ legs, Dean sees the plug he inserted there, earlier that afternoon. Cas has had it inside him, all this time, filled with Dean’s seed, and Dean whines at the thought of it, needing Cas’ lips on him more than ever.  
  
“ _Please,_ Cas.” he begs, and Castiel must hear the need in his voice, finally pressing his lips to Dean’s erection. It’s only a kiss, open-mouthed and wet, but it’s so good Dean groans anyway, long and loud. More kisses follow, all over his length, down to his base, interspersed with small kitten-licks, lapping at his skin. His thighs fall open as far as they can go, needing ever more, but then Cas pulls them up, pressing them back against his chest. Dean knows this position, what it’s for, but he still jolts when he feels Cas’ tongue lick across his hole.  
  
Dean’s breath becomes rapid with panic. He knows it’s Cas, he can see that in the mirror, but he can’t help his reaction. He tries to force it down this time though, concentrate on Cas’ reflection and the way Cas’ hands stroke his thighs in that familiar, soothing manner, and eventually the pleasure begins to outweigh the panic.  
  
It’s been so long since he's let anyone do this to him, which makes him extra sensitive to begin with, but his skin still stings after the flogging he’d received as well, making him doubly sensitive. And Cas’ tongue is so wickedly long, and wet, flicking inside him and circling his rim with a fervour that makes Dean’s thighs shake.  
  
By the time Cas presses his finger against Dean’s hole, Dean’s more than ready for it. He’s so wet, Cas’ finger slides in easy, regardless of how long it’s been. Cas is still careful with him though, watching him for any sign of pain or discomfort, but Dean gives him none. And when Cas presses a second finger against him, Dean nods, letting him in. Cas begins seriously prepping him then, stretching him slowly while still stimulating him enough to keep him aroused, and if Dean had any anxieties left over where this was going, they vanish the moment Cas leans over him, and presses their lips together again.  
  
“Dean, I’m going to make love to you now,” Cas murmurs, “So everyone knows you belong to me.”  
  
A small sound escapes Dean’s throat at that, like a sudden exhale of breath instead of the “Yes” he wants to say, so he can only nod his assent.  
  
A minion rushes forward then, handing Castiel lube and a condom, and for a second Dean wonders if she was able to hear what Castiel said because she’s just extremely attentive, or if it’s because the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  
  
Cas takes the lube, not even bothering to look at her, and then he’s stretching Dean out again, three-fingers wide, until Dean is pushing down for more.  
  
“Please!” he manages to get out, and it’s enough for Cas. He removes his fingers carefully, positioning himself at Dean’s entrance, and soon Dean feels the head of Castiel’s cock breach his hole. It’s an agonizingly slow slide, before Cas is fully seated inside him, and even when they finally lock together, Cas waits impossibly long minutes, carefully watching Dean’s reactions.  
  
Dean, on his part, is watching Castiel just as closely. How he shakes, breathes too hard, the flush on his pale skin all betraying the quiet calm he’s trying to exude. And all for Dean’s benefit. Dean leans up to kiss him, trying to tell Cas with his body how he _needs_ , and finally Cas begins to move.  
  
His thrusts are slow at first, still cautious. Dean’s had bigger inside him, but it’s been a long time, so he feels as tight as his first time. But he’s no virgin, so he knows how to relax himself, how to open himself up completely, and before long Castiel and thrusting deep and steady.  
  
Dean groans, dropping his head back as heat starts pulsing though him, pleasure rising up through his body. He can see Castiel in the mirror, rocking into him, the wings tattooed on his back moving up and down in slow beats. He wishes he could touch, _hold_ , but all he can do is try to meet Castiel’s thrusts with his own, and watch.  
  
Maybe it’s only fair, since Castiel was similarly cuffed the first time Dean took him to bed. But that was just Dean’s standard mode of operation back then. Just the way he got his kicks. And he hadn’t even known Cas’ name at the time. Even though he already knew he wanted more from him, looking back on it. He even remembers wanting to screw Cas right in front of his bathroom mirror, when he first saw Cas’ wings, so he could look at them and Castiel’s angel-face at the same time.  
  
Castiel had no idea what he was in for then.  
  
But this now, it’s entirely different. He _knows_ Castiel now. And Castiel knows _him_. In a way he’s never let anyone know him before. And Castiel is _claiming_ him. Every last bit of him. With his kisses, his hands, his body, the look in his eyes, like he’s seeing right through to Dean’s very soul… It’s overwhelming, and soon Dean’s vision becomes blurry with tears.  
  
His voice cracks, as he moans Cas’ name. He has been for some time now, over and over again, soft and needy as Castiel drives into him, sure and strong. But he can barely hold himself together anymore, devastated by the devotion in Castiel’s eyes, utterly broken open by it.  
  
“It’s alright, Dean, I’ve got you.” Castiel gasps, “You’re mine now, and I’m never going to let you go.”  
  
Dean nods, trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill down his face.  
  
“I need you to say it, Dean.” Cas breaths, “Say it for me, so everyone knows. Including you."  
  
“ _Cas…_ ” Dean chokes out.  
  
“Trust me, Dean, I’m not going anywhere, ever. I belong to you too, you know.”  
  
He does now.  
  
“Say it.”  
  
“I’m yours.”  
  
“ _Yes!_ ” Cas moans, “ _Now_ , Dean!”  
  
“I love you Cas!” he sobs out. And then he’s coming, words of love and adoration poured back into his ears as Castiel holds onto him, releasing himself as well as Dean’s body climaxes and clenches, milking him dry. It's been so long since Dean’s come like this, from the inside out. And even then nothing has ever compared to how he feels right now, with _Cas_ inside him, filling him up in ways he wasn't aware he’d needed, finding every dark crack inside his soul and filling them all with light and hope and bliss until he was _bursting_ with it.  
  
Castiel’s arms shake as he reaches up to Dean’s cuffs and works to free his wrists. Or maybe it’s Dean who’s shaking, and the tremors are running all the way through Cas’ body. Either way, as soon as he’s free he grabs onto Castiel, holding on as tight as he can as he pulls Castiel down to kiss him. He barely notices the rapturous round of applause that rises around them, the appreciative murmuring as their audience begins to leave.  
  
Afterwards Cas pulls away and just _looks_ at him again, so he barely notices Cas squirming, manoeuvering himself, until he finally sees in the mirror that Cas has reached around behind himself to remove his plug. Dean's eyes fly wide when he feels it being pressed at his sensitive entrance, but when he realizes what Cas means to do he relaxes, letting Cas slide it inside him until it's seated securely.  
  
“Let’s get out of here.” Cas says into his ear, and Dean nods, frantically, peppering Cas face with more kisses before letting go. Cas moves backwards to remove the cuffs from his ankles, and he pushes himself up, still a little shaky and still needing more breath than he has. Cas is with him every step of the way though, helping him off the rack onto wobbly legs, wiping him down with a towel provided by their attentive minion. Cas even stays close as they get dressed again, unable to stop touching him or kissing him, quick and soft, whenever possible.  
  
“Well boys, that was quite a show! Hugs and puppies all around!” Meg’s voice cuts into their quiet bubble. Dean stiffens, turning to face her.  
  
“Yeah, well, thanks for the use of your rack.” he replies. “And thanks for earlier.” he adds, because it’s just professional courtesy, even though the smile Meg gives him at that makes his skin crawl.  
  
“Listen, Clarence,” Meg turns to Cas, “A sweet kid called Inias caught your little performance just now, and would like to invite you to one of the private rooms upstairs.”  
  
“Um…” Cas blanches, “Tell him I’m very flattered, but I’m exclusive now.” he replies, reaching out to take Dean’s hand. Dean smiles, squeezing back.  
  
“Ugh. Whatever.” Meg rolls her eyes. “Well, when you two decide you’re solid enough to come play again, you know where to find us.” she waves dismissively before breezing off.  
  
Finally alone, Dean turns to Cas, kissing him again. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” he asks quietly, “There’s some pretty good toys upstairs.”  
  
A small, amused smile curls at the corner of Castiel’s lips, but he shakes his head. “The next time I chain you up, it's going to be for _days._ ” he replies, low, and sure, and full of heat.  
  
Dean’s knees go weak, at the thought of what’s waiting for him, and the unspoken promises in Castiel’s eyes.  
  
“You’ll be screaming my name for the rest of your _life_ , Dean Winchester.”

  
~ _fin_

  
  
 _much, MUCH later… just because…  
_  
Castiel: You’ve been so good for me, so very obedient and trusting and so very patient with me as I’ve fumbled my way through this learning process. But while I have no doubt that by now you would do anything I ask of you, I feel I must, in good conscious, ask for your permission. Inias my pet, if I asked you to service Dean, would you consent?  
  
Inias: I would gladly bring pleasure to the man my master loves.  
  
me: … Maybe next Halloween X_X


End file.
